Latest Posts by doublebubbletoilnmubble - Page 2

In my peter parker phase again and I think I'm going to use this as my bedtime story for the next week xoxo

first date | tasm!peter parker x reader

“How can you think about kissing me right now?” you ask him, scrubbing your eyes with your hand.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

<3

summary you take care of a sick Peter on your would be first date. later, he returns the favour and makes some promises. [3k]

warnings fluff, hurt/comfort, sickfic, vomit tw, friends to trying really hard to be lovers, fem!reader

<3

Peter stands in the doorway wearing a rumpled shirt and sweatpants and you know before he opens his mouth your plans are cancelled.

"Pete," you whine, in your prettiest dress and your best jewellery. "You couldn't have called me?"

"I'm sorry, dovey, I fell asleep." He sneezes into his elbow. "Your knock woke me up. Sorry.”

You shiver as a cold breeze whips past you. "It's okay."

He opens the door wider. "You look killer. And cold. Let me find you a jacket. "

You withhold the evil urge to step on his socks. Closer now you can see his clammy skin and dirty hair, the minute trembling of his hands.

"You know, Pete, maybe you should get back in bed. Or I could run you a bath," you say, knowing it's a little weird. He scrunches his eyes shut and opens them, blinking hard at you. "When did you last eat?" you ask, frowning at him.

"Last night."

"It's six o'clock," you say, sighing.

You look around him and see the living room sofa covered in tissues and a quilt. The TV's on mute. There's a hoodie on the back of the sofa. You pick it up and press it to your nose. It's clean, and you shrug it on over your silly sparkly dress. Peter offers his arm and you take it, using him for balance as you toe off your heels.

He's looking at you a little too despondently for your liking. You take him by the forearm and lead him back to sit on the sofa.

"I can't remember the last time you got sick," you say, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.

He's not feverish. You straighten up and smile at him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," he says, the words sounding taffy sticky in his mouth.

"Are you hungry?" you ask.

He frowns. You want to stroke his cheek, smooth the line away. You get to work instead. In a flurry you collect all his dirty tissues and take his empty glass from the coffee table. You fill the glass up to the top with cold water and take it back in. He's already deflating, eyes closed.

"Will you drink this for me?" you ask, pushing the limp hair from his eyes. They flutter open. "I'll make you something to eat, too. It'll make you feel better."

He takes the glass and holds it to his chest.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says, voice scratchy.

"I can't go on our date alone, either."

"Date," he repeats. "Was it a date?"

"Yes, Peter," you say, not even slightly surprised by this. He goes to stand up. You push him back down. "Where are you going?"

"We had a date," he says, looking up at you.

You smile at him, you can't help it. He's a total sweetheart. "We can have another date."

"I didn't even know this one was a date," he says, frowning. "No wonder you're dressed so pretty. Oh my god."

"It's okay, Peter. I promise you can have a do over, so could you please just sit?"

"A date," he murmurs to himself, sinking into the cushions. "Are you sure it was a date?"

"I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't," you say under your breath. You pile your hair up out of your face and push up your sleeves.

"I'm sorry," he calls, voice all scratchy and croaky.

You feel bad, then, for the inkling of dejection curled up in your chest. It wasn't his fault he was sick, and maybe you hadn't made yourself clear enough that it was, in fact, a formal date.

Cutlery rattles as you pull open the first drawer next to the stove top. You fish out a can opener and shake your head. "It's really okay, Peter. Even if you'd known that I thought it was a real date, you couldn't have prevented yourself from getting sick."

You were familiar in his kitchen. Months of Peter bringing you home to tend your wounds and feed you. Last week he'd kissed your bandaged knees, so when he'd asked you to dinner, yes, you'd thought it was a date.

Pouring the newly opened can of soup into a pot over the stove top, you put the burner to simmer and stirred for good measure.

You wander back into the living room without really thinking. Peter looks positively miserable with the quilt pulled over him. You work your way into his side and tentatively pull his head into your chest, push your fingers into his hair to brush the tips of them against his scalp. He relaxes under your touch.

"You asked if I wanted to go to the new Thai place. I said, 'I'll meet you at six thirty,' and you said, 'it's a date,'" you tell him quietly, using your other hand to hold the hair from his face.

"I know I said that," he admits sheepishly.

"Then why are you surprised?"

"I didn't think you actually wanted that from me."

You feel your eyebrows pinch together. "You don't think I really like skateboarding that much, do you? I'm awful. My knees are more scar than skin."

His hand finds your thigh, fingers brushing over your tights. "I thought you were enthusiastic."

"I am, just not about skateboarding," you whisper, happy when he laughs at your teasing tone.

So what if you were a little reckless at the skatepark? Peter was always there to tape up your bleeding knees.

You lean down and press a very short kiss into the skin where his hairline begins. "I want a real date, please," you say into his skin. "When you're feeling better."

"You'll get whatever you want," he says firmly. You would've found it romantic if he didn't sound so ragged.

"I'll hold you to it."

Sputtering from the kitchen. You push him off of you gently and tuck a pillow behind his head before attending to the soup, tights slipping over tile in your hurry. You giggle a little as you stir the soup, excited by this revelation in your relationship with Peter. You pour soup into a bowl and cut two slices of bread into smaller pieces.

He's back in a fugue by the time you return.

"Come on, Peter. Sit up. I made soup."

"You really don't have to do all this," he says, swallowing. You set the tray on his lap and sit on the floor by his legs, holding his drink in your hands. You offer it to him soundlessly as he sits up.

"How many times have you taken care of me, I wonder," you say, letting your head rest against his leg. You're startled when he reaches out to pet your hair.

"Eat your soup," you scold.

"I am," he says through a mouthful.

You watch TV with his hand in your hair, running your nails over your tights. Your heart beats loudly in your ears, overly aware of every shift, every slight movement. His hand trails down from the top of your head to rest on your shoulder, thumb massaging your trap muscle lightly.

He eats about half the bowl before he puts it aside and shuffles out from under you.

"I'm gonna go shower, dovey. Sorry you saw me so gross," he says, edging over your legs carefully.

"I see you everyday."

"Hilarious. Stay there looking pretty. I'll be back."

"Pretty," you repeat to yourself, listening as his footsteps fade away upstairs. You pick at the edge of your dress for a little while and then stand to clean up the mess you made in May's spotless kitchen.

Peter emerges freshly dressed and damp as you're putting the dirty dishes out on the draining board.

"You scrub up well. I wouldn't even guess you were sick," you say sweetly.

Peter does look better. His skin has a new flush of colour. He takes the tea towel out of your hands and puts it on the countertop. "Stop cleaning."

"It's not for you! Don't get it twisted, it's for May."

He looks a little worn still. You shuffle your feet, close enough to reach out and touch him. Like he can read your mind, his arm slides over your shoulder, bringing you into his side. You rub your face in his new shirt and melt under his touches, his fingers spreading out over your arm.

"I'm sorry for not calling."

"You were sleeping."

"I'm sorry for not knowing it was a date."

"It technically wasn't."

He squeezes your arm, groaning. "Let me be sorry for something, dove. You're in my house all dolled up taking care of me and I'm like, a pathetic little stepped on worm."

You laugh into his side. "I like taking care of you: you're a cute worm."

"Awful. I don't know how to make it up to you."

"You can take me somewhere really, really nice for our date."

"Done. You wanna watch Seinfeld reruns?"

-

You're sick. You feel at least a little better when you call Peter to tell him, smug.

"I'm sick," you announce down the phone, in your thickest pajamas with a tissue pressed to your face.

"Oh, dove."

"It's not your fault. My little cousins came over full of the flu. But I don't think I'll be able to go on our date tonight, I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be sorry. First one's a freebie."

You laugh and the laugh turns to a cough. You push the phone away from you and wheeze into your tissue, chest aching.

"Sorry," you say when you manage to pick the phone back up. It hurts to talk.

"Do you have someone taking care of you?"

"I'm a big girl."

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"I'm fine, Pete. Really. I'm just, you know, hurting. And wheezy. It'll be gone in a day or two and then I'll be tip top shape. You can teach me how to heelflip."

"I don't think you could heelflip at the peak of health, dovey. No offense."

"How is that not offensive?"

"Let me come over. I'll make you soup. Please."

You cough again, loud and crackling. "I'll get you sick again. We'll be in a constant loop of sickness."

"It's a risk I'll take. What soup do you want? Chicken? Cream of mushroom?"

You sigh and dig the heel of your palm into the building throbbing in your head. "Can you get me tomato soup? With the basil?" you ask, and even to your own ears you sound sad. It's overwhelming to have someone care so much, you decide, though you like how it feels.

"Whatever you want," he says, mushy soft. "I'll be right over, okay?"

"Okay," you say. He hangs up. You try to stay awake and end up falling asleep bent over, face digging into the throw cushion in your lap.

-

You won't answer your phone and you won't come open the door. Peter has no choice but to assume you've fallen over in your state and smashed your head open, and so he only feels a little guilty when he lifts up your doormat and finds your spare key.

He unlocks the door, closes it safely behind him as he lets himself in. Your apartment is dark and quiet. He can hear the small beeping of your washing machine, the sound of a finished load. He sets his paper bag on the counter and approaches your bedroom on light footing.

He knocks. You don't answer. He pushes the door open a fraction and peeks in, and there you are, asleep on the bed and folded in half.

He takes his shoes off and steps into the carpeted boundary of your room, feeling like a burglar. He doesn't want to scare you with any sudden movements, settling down at the top of your bed with care. You've slouched to one side with your face driven into a pillow, the waffle knit patterning your face with indents. He rubs the top of your thigh gently, whispering your name.

You stir and moan, stretching yourself out. He takes the opportunity to push his hand against your forehead. You're on fire.

He pulls the sheets off of your legs and helps you, still sleepy, into a more comfortable position for the meantime.

"Do you want to keep sleeping?" he murmurs.

You look at him through half closed eyes. "I think I'm burning."

"You're not, you're just hot. Do you have a different shirt you can put on? What's with the fleece, dovey? It's supposed to hit 78 today."

"They're soft. Um, in my top drawer. The left one."

He retrieves a t-shirt for you to change into and climbs up on your bed to open your window. Your bed is pushed up against an almost full length window. Boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter, he'd recently helped you reseal it with filler. You grabbed his leg to steady him, an unnecessary move that made his fondness for you triple. Quadruple. Maybe even heptuple.

"You get that new shirt on," he said, climbing down to go make some soup. "I'll be right back."

He is not right back. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to make soup. First your hob won't work and then it's too hot and he burns the grilled cheese. He rushes to open your front door as the smoke alarms starts screaming and you emerge in the kitchen with the new shirt on and no pants.

"You've misplaced your pants," he says, looking pointedly at the new grilled cheese he's making.

"They're shorts."

"Ah," he says. Man up, Parker, he thinks.

"What's burning?" you ask hoarsely.

"Grilled cheese."

"You're making grilled cheese?"

"I'm making grilled cheese."

"Say grilled cheese five times fast," you say, leaning your elbows on the countertop heavily.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asks.

You sit down on the kitchen floor and he has to reevaluate how sick you are, turning down the stove and crouching in front of you. He tilts your head up and looks between both eyes.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.

"You're pretty," you say.

"So are you," he says. He massages your cheeks with his thumbs until you're laughing and inching away from him, batting his hands with yours.

"You can't sit there. You're a safety hazard."

You try to stand up. "I'm dizzy. My head feels really heavy."

He puts his hands out and slides them under your armpits, lifting you up with ease. You wobble in his hold and search for grounding with your hands, fingers grabbing at his shirt. It feels natural to push his chin over your head and pull you in for a hug, letting you rest your weight against his chest.

"Poor girl, you're really out of it, huh?" he asks, running his hand over your hair, your back. "Alright, I'll put you on the sofa, how's that? You can watch a movie."

You nod. He's glad for that. Soon you're tucked up on the sofa with a plate in your lap that holds a bowl of soup and two triangles of grilled cheese. You force half the sandwich into his hands before you start eating, an expectant look on your face.

You mostly eat big spoonfuls of soup, pausing to cough. He winces at each one.

"What did your cousins have? Whooping cough?"

You laugh, cough, and nibble on the end of your grilled cheese. "Jungle fever."

He takes your plate when you're done and you sink into the sofa, listless as you watch TV. He doesn't mind, your legs in his lap. He even thinks to himself, hey, this isn't such a bad first date.

You sit up abruptly and pitch to the side, gasping. He looks on in horror as you heave bile onto the ground. He rushes to the kitchen, straight for the bucket you keep under the sink for washing dishes and employs a little spidey speed to push it under your face as you throw up. Your rug lives to die another day.

He catches your hair and pulls it out of the way, soothing and patting your back as you go.

You pant with tears in your eyes when you're done. It's just soup and bile and hardly bothers him, he's seen worse, but you push it away from you and cover your face with your hands.

"Oh my god," you moan.

He helps you sit up and hunts down a tea towel for you to wipe your face with, slotting himself thigh to thigh with you. He puts his hand on your back. “Here.”

“I didn’t think it was a sickness bug, Pete, I swear, I never would’ve let you come over here,” you say. Your voice is raw.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“You’ll be sick again. Endless sick loop. No first date,” you say, remorseful.

“No, I’m getting my first date. I don’t care how sick we get, I’m gonna take you out and you’re gonna have a really good time, and then I’m gonna give you the best kiss of your life.”

He wipes your face with the tea towel, flattening the edges of your small smile. You wrinkle your nose at him.

“How can you think about kissing me right now?” you ask him, scrubbing your eyes with your hand.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

You smile at him weakly. “Maybe I’ll believe you when I don’t smell like puke.”

“You wanna shower?”

“Don’t think I can stand up right now.”

“I don’t mind helping,” he says, and he’s completely genuine. He doesn’t think of the double entendre until you’re laughing a wheezing laugh and sinking into his side, face buried in his chest. He wraps his arms around you.

“Take me out to dinner first,” you mumble. Well, it’s not like he hasn’t been trying.

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

tasm taglist @pomminine @isabelleonabicycle @decafcoffew@runawaywithmyghost@joebobisachickenfart @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah

Curtiss Candy Co, 1940

Yeah

Oh?? My God????

One of my girls was making fun of meand I sent her a :( i hope she can feel hoe pathetically I'm frowning and blubbering rn

if I started hopping around my house on all fours that would fix some things I think. Would really do me a lot of good you should try it

Baby bluesೄྀ࿐

Vintage ads are so oddly nostalgic considering that when they came out I wasn't, you know, alive.

as sweet as heaven she was ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Thinking about horrible sad beige houses and how much nicer they could be if people would accept NOVELTY

A collection of my favorite adorable Flapper Fanny clips! ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

The vintage aesthetic is too good, what a shame the vintage world wasn't

God I love Stupid Fucking Ads. 'Tis I, the

Ancient Princess Menace

Y'all ever wake up some mornings and just decide that under No Fucking Circumstances will you be going to school?? Yeah

“how could you be so stupid” well you know what. its really not that hard

My eye doctor: wow you're so stable! I wish my prescription stayed this stable :)

Me, foaming at the mouth: ah yes! I'm going to get a good grade in Shitty Eyesight, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve,

A need ♡♡

hello kitty phone charms 👛

This is the cutest ever I need it so bad

hello kitty ice molds 🧊🎀

This quite literally made me cry. Imagine writing this beautifully💗💗💗

your hand, forever | james potter x reader

“I didn’t tell you,” he said, words like spun silver from his lips, “how beautiful you look today. Forgive me.”

Your heart rocketed. You took as subtle a steadying breath as you could manage, using the very tip of your index finger to push a misbehaved wave from his face. He waited patiently, his eyes drifting shut at your touch.

You dropped your hand. “So tell me,” you said, as bravely as you could.

summary you ask James to pretend to be your boyfriend. he always says yes. [6k]

warnings fake!dating, pining, marauders era, basically a love note for james. fem!reader, fluff, intimacy

requested here

"James," you murmured, edging into his space where he was standing at the bar. Mary said he’d be here and, hallelujah, there he stood.

He rolled his eyes, glancing from his friends and then down to you. "What do you want, shortcake?"

You held back a scowl, determined to be as nice to him as possible. You were hardly short. Much. At all. He was just tall. And he knew you hated the nickname either way.

"I need a favour."

His eyes softened just a smidge at your tone.

"Anything you want," he said.

You looked out of the corner of your eye at Sirius who was listening intently and Remus who was pretending not to be.

"Can I ask you in private? Sorry."

Remus cleared his throat. "Is something the matter?"

"No, it's nothing. Just a secret," you said, attempting to smile at him beguilingly.

James sent the boys a blinding what can you do smile and threw his arm over your shoulder, steering you both from the prying eyes of the local and out into the biting early spring cold.

"What's your issue?" You pulled out from under his hold to wrap your arms around yourself. "C'mon, you're making me nervous. You killed someone?"

"What? James, no!"

"You're pregnant." You laughed weakly. His face went white. "You're not!"

"I'm not!" you rushed to say. "No. Sorry."

"’Sorry sorry sorry‘. Don’t be. You didn't kill someone and you're not pregnant — I can fix whatever this is."

"My hero Jamie, always trying to fix things," you sang, trying your best to cheer up. "It's not so terrible, I'm only shy 'cos I'm afraid to ask you, not cause it's the end of the world.”

"Rip off the plaster and ask, then. I’ll say yes,” he said, patient where he leaned against the pub's brickwork.

"I know. I think that's why I'm afraid to ask." He raised his eyebrows. You looked at his hands and asked. "Will you pretend to be my boyfriend?"

His easy smile slowly faded.

"What?"

"For Alice's wedding. Please? Just for the wedding."

"I'll be your date, whatever you want."

"No… I- I'm just…" you covered your mouth with the back of your hand before closing your eyes, clenching your fist and pushing it out awkwardly. "Georgia Finningley said I'm not the kind of girl who gets a boyfriend. That she couldn't see me with someone. And I know she didn't mean it to be mean, and it wasn't mean, and I know I'm being silly, but-"

"When did she say that to you?"

"Last week, after Lily's."

"She said that to you in front of the other girls?" he asked, eyebrows scrunched together.

"No. We were- we were out on the mezzanine."

"Smoking?"

You warmed. "That's not the point."

"You're right, it's not. I'll come back to the smoking after." He stepped closer to your side, not touching but close. "She said it to be mean."

"I know," you admitted.

"I know you know."

You stood in silence, two blades of grass in the wind. His hair was ruffled by the breeze, skin warm in the dreary landscape. He was always the warmest thing in sight, even in summer.

"I'll be your boyfriend."

"Thank you.”

"But, and you know this about me already, I won't do anything by halves. Alright?"

"Right."

"We need at least a few public sightings before the wedding so people will believe it. And I'll have to lie to the boys. You'll have to lie to the girls."

"And then…"

"We’ll slowly fade off after the wedding and Finningley won't be any the wiser. We can say you broke up with me for being too handsome."

"Too irritating, more like."

"That too. If they're gonna believe us in love by Longbottom's wedding we're gonna have to put on a good show," he said excitedly, "you may be so lucky as to kiss me, you realise? We're gonna be so in love it makes other people sick."

"Thank you, James." You meant it. You knew he was offended on your behalf by what Georgia had said.

"I'm not doing it for you! Well, I am. But also 'cos I can't stand uppity wankers like Georgia fucking Finningley thinking they're judge and jury."

You fizzled. He opened his palm out in front of you and beckoned for you to take it. "We fancy each other starting now. Okay?" He was grinning too deviously for your liking.

You felt a little nauseous as you agreed, even worse when you followed him back inside the bar and found his friends sitting in a booth awaiting his return. He pulled you by the hand into the seat beside him and then dropped it like nothing had happened.

"We totally saw that," Sirius said, shocked.

Remus looked similarly surprised.

"Saw what?" James asked, taking an appreciative sip of his pint.

"You were holding hands!"

James raised his eyebrows, slipping his hand behind your back casually. "Are we five?"

Remus was at a loss for words. Sirius was enraged.

"What's happening?" Remus asked.

"What are you doing?" Sirius asked in turn.

You could feel yourself begin to sweat. James pressed his hand tight to the small of your back when he noticed your nerves before patting you firmly and pulling away.

"Nothing," he said. "She's tired."

"You're being all touchy."

"I'm always touchy."

"While I agree you're very sensitive, I think we're talking more about your sudden tactileness,” Remus cut in.

James snorted, peaking at you out the corner of his eye in a show of nervousness. "Don't know what you mean!"

"Mate, you just looked at her."

"Y/N," Sirius appealed to you, "he's not acting out of character?"

You shrugged and chuckled nervously. It wasn't fake.

"Are you two…?"

James said nothing. You, having been counting on him, also said nothing, which said enough for both Sirius and Remus to look blindsided.

"Since when?" Sirius demanded.

James smirked into his drink.

"Right, and your favour?" Remus asked smugly, zeroing in on your windblown appearance. "Little old to be tumbling in alleyways, aren't we?"

"We didn't-"

"Never too old for some fun," James said cheerily, then turned to you. "You want a drink, shortcake?"

"Yes," you said. You thought you'd probably need it.

-

You were standing outside Sirius Black's flat, nervous. Tonight was your official unveiling as a couple with James and most of your friends were going to be there among whatever company Sirius had deigned to invite. You'd worried yourself silly over the fact that James was probably going to get handsy because you desired it and knew you shouldn't, not knowing how to act in love enough to fool everyone and not in love enough to fool James.

The door cracked open, Sirius with a cigarette in hand.

"Oh, you creature. What're you loitering on my mat for?"

You crept back, eyes crinkling. "I was just about to knock."

"Sure you were. Cig?"

"Yes, please."

You accepted the cigarette and let your weight fall on his doorway, let him light it for you. You took a careful first drag and smiled as your throat burned.

"Don't tell James."

"I won't tell your boyfriend, but he'll know."

"How?" you asked, pushing off the doorway to flick ash over his railing. Sirius grinned manically under the stoop, overhead lights painting him stark pale.

"He'll taste it."

Noise from the party drifted out the door. "Big crowd tonight."

"Nah, they're all alright. Long as someone keeps Marl off the peach snapps it'll be a quiet one."

His definition of a quiet one was different to everyone else's, evidently, as things were getting quite rowdy inside after you'd finished your indulgent cig. You vaguely recalled most people's names and found yourself familiarly tucked into the group of girls, Lily and Mary having acquired a tray of jello shots.

"And where've you got all these?" you asked Mary.

She shook her head and tapped the side of her nose. "Secret."

"C'mon, I hate secrets."

"Don't we all!" Marlene said to you. "Ironic considering a little birdie told me something interesting about you this morning."

"Yeah?"

"Very, very interesting," she said, nodding.

"If it's the same thing I heard then I'm very mad at you," Lily said. You froze up and she laughed. "For not telling us!"

The girls had all leaned in for your confession.

"It just happened. I don't know when. Suddenly, we're together."

You smiled like you couldn't help it, picking at your nails. Your group of friends giggled and cheered, Mary forcing a shot into your hand. "This is a cause for celebration," she declared, similarly appointing each girl with their own jelly. Emmeline stared down at hers apprehensively. "Do it for Y/N," Mary said pointedly.

Emma took her shot and groaned. "Congratulations," she said hoarsely. "I'm not doing another one."

The rest of you took your own shots.

"I really hadn't expected it. You've been firmly in James Potter's friend zone since third year,” Dorcas began.

"I asked him out one time!"

"And he was still of the idea Lily would change her mind back then," Mary said, nodding sagely.

Lily frowned a little. "You say that like he's settling. Don't be cruel." Mary laughed, pinching Lily's arm until she was giggling and crawling away.

"That's not what I meant at all! Just that he fancied you at the time. I wouldn't call it settling, anyhow. That's like saying a poor man settles for caviar," Mary said.

"Am I the poor man or the caviar?" James asked, voice very close. You twisted to find he'd stationed himself behind you without being heard, movements covered by the general hubbub of the room. "I best be the caviar, or I'm going to be very upset." He said this as he pushed his hand across your shoulder until his palm was cupping your neck. He leaned down and kissed you quickly on the mouth, a chaste peck. "Hello, sweetheart."

You said hello back, word so quiet it got lost on the way from your mouth. He smiled at you very sweetly and then turned his attention to the ladies. "Evening, girls."

"Yeah, hi, loverboy," Lily said, squinting at him.

"Evans, always so cold. Mary, you look ravishing! Orange is your colour." It really was. Mary pressed a hand to her chest in mock swooning, leaning back so her braids pressed into Lily's shoulder.

"Potter, keep the flirting for your missus."

"Right you are, Marl." James turned his eyes to you. You imagined his expression wavering, the mark of adoration in his eyes. "You look lovely," he said, uncharacteristically quiet, and then, "good enough to eat. Mind if I try?"

"You admit, I'm the caviar?"

He grinned. "No, I don't."

"Don't like that," Dorcas complained.

"Yeah, I don't remember signing up for the tooth-rotting stuff," Lily agreed.

"Tooth-rotting! I was thinking sickening," Sirius said, grabbing James' shoulder in a manly clasp.

"Don't get too jealous, I've saved some for you." James maneuvered into Sirius' space until he was close enough to kiss him. Sirius called his bluff and stayed very still until James backed off. "You're no fun, Black."

"Don't want to catch whatever it is you've got. No offense," he said, nodding to you.

James remembered himself and smiled at you easily. "Whatever it is," he said warmly, "she's got it bad."

Half the girls cried out in disgust while the others cooed. Sirius rolled his eyes and muttered something about finding someone less insufferable to drink with.

"Didn't want to drink with that plonker anyways," James said, his hand finding a home at the nape of your neck, squeezing with his fingertips. You were puzzled at his behaviour and shuddered, pulling away to analyse his expression. He wasn't looking at you, instead his eyes were on the TV. "I hate this song."

"You hate this song?" you asked.

"What, s'hard to believe?"

"What kind of music do you like, James, besides top of the pops?"

"Stuff too mature for ears like yours, baby, don't worry yourself with it."

You huffed. "Prick."

"And proud. Want a drink?"

You could feel the warmth of the jelly shot still, and banked on getting in another. The best part about drinking was the taste becoming easier to manage the more you drank. "I want something fruity, please."

"Your wish is my command, sweet thing."

“You know what else my little birdie told me?” Marlene asked as soon as he’d gone.

“Your little birdie being Sirius Black, of course?”

“Quite right.”

“Go about it, then,” Emma prompted.

“You’ve been shagging Pots in alleyways and pub bathrooms.”

That had actually been the fun part of your deception. James had taken Remus and Sirius’ smoke break as an opportunity to plan ahead. “Right, when they come back, I’m going to look at you all subtle - as in, not subtle at all - and go to the bathroom and you can bat your dainty lashes at them both and make some excuse about needing some air, and then we’re going to fuck in the bathroom.”

You’d looked at him in total shock.

He’d lasted a further five seconds before breaking. “I’m messing with you, darling girl,” he pulled a pack of exploding snap cards from his pocket, “we’ll shoot the breeze for half an hour.”

“Half hour? They’ll definitely know we’re lying,” you’d said, laughing at your own joke as he’d pouted at you.

“Only a bit,” you admitted, ears warming. Marlene tilted her head back.

“I wouldn’t have thought it of you,” Dorcas said.

“Thought what?” you asked.

“Well. That you’d fancy James, and that you’d fancy him enough to shag in the leaky cauldron. Sirius is right, you might actually have something,” she joked, grinning. “Just saying - must be a pretty good fuck to risk dragon pox.”

“Sanitation spells are quick and easy,” James said pointedly, pressing a cold can of cider into your hands, sitting on the arm of the chair you were in with a flourish of his smart jacket. He pulled your shoulder against his thigh, hand on your other side. “But you’re right, Dor. I’m a good fuck. The missus will attest.”

"The missus doesn’t kiss and tell,” you muttered, flushing. You opened your can of cider and took a drink to avoid meeting the eyes of your teasing friends.

The night drifted on. James played a diligent boyfriend and stuck by your side even when the boys left to play cocktail waitress in the kitchen. This was, perhaps, his best move. Each of your friends seemed shocked and (to your pleasure) a little awed at his watchdog position. He only left to get more drinks and was back quicker than he had to, always returning to press you into his leg, hand firm on your shoulder. As the night progressed his hand rose, drifting slowly like the tide – up and down and up again.

His fingers in your hair had you biting back a shiver. You looked out of the corner of your eye to find his arm, muscled from the quidditch season, straining against his smart button down shirt. From under your lashes you could see he wasn't looking at you, his eyes somewhere across the room, distracted by boyish laughter.

You pushed into his side as a show of affection and whispered, "You don't have to stay here all night."

You heard the conversation around you hiccup. Your friends were listening and pretending not to be. He leaned down to talk closer to your ear.

"The point in being your boyfriend is spending time with you."

"It's been an hour. Go – stretch your legs, embarrass Remus."

He weighed his options and then dotted a kiss on your temple. "Alright, pretty girl. I'll be back," he said.

You brought your hand to your temple as he walked away, dusting the pads of your fingers across his kiss.

“That’s awful,” Dorcas said.

You winced. “It is?”

“I mean — you can tell how much he likes you,” she corrected.

“Too much,” Marlene agreed.

“Have you ever known James Potter to shy away from a party?”

“Maybe he really likes you guys,” you deflected.

“He really likes you.”

Someone said something else. The conversation span. Somebody spoke about their latest fling, Marlene made enough jokes to put Sirius to shame. You ran your thumb across the embossed cider can, thinking.

“Well,” said one of the girls. “I just didn’t expect it from you.”

There was a small silence in which you didn’t realise she was talking to you.

“What?” you asked with a sheepish smile.

“A boyfriend.”

You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.

“That’s funny,” you said, clearing your throat. “Someone said the same thing to me the other day.”

“I can see it clear as day. Maybe not James,” Lily said decidedly, “but definitely someone.”

“Our flower,” Mary said, brushing your shoe with hers.

“I just - excuse me, would you guys? Too many drinks,” you said, pushing onto your wobbly feet. It was half a lie.

You closed yourself in Sirius’ small bathroom and sighed. Considering he was a boy, he kept the space clean. You put the toilet seat down to sit and felt a sudden rush of embarrassed tears. Were you truly so off putting? You were old enough and smart enough to know by now that when people said they couldn’t see you in a relationship, it meant there was something undesirable about you. Were you ugly? Stupid?

You’d never been jaw dropping like Marl or top of the class like Lily, but you weren’t bad. You were pretty, you told yourself, staring into the large mirror set on the wall in front of the bathroom sink. You looked nice tonight. Your hair was perfect and you were dressed in something new and flashy. Maybe they didn’t mean it in a bad way. It still hurt.

You watched a tear trace the soft hill of your cheek and run down to the curve of your chin, sniffling weakly. It was the kind of hurt that made you feel pathetic, made your heart hurt.

“Shortcake?” You flinched at his gentle voice on the other side of the door. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” you said, too loudly.

“Can I come in?”

You flicked the lock. James let himself in and was quick to lock the door behind him.

“I hope you’ve brought your a-game tonight, these cards are burning a hole in my pocket. Literally. Hey, are you alright?”

You swiped the heel of your hand across your face quickly. “I’m fine, James.”

“You don’t look fine,” he said. His hands hovered, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“Too much cider. It’s nothing.”

He nodded like he’d suddenly understood what you were saying. “Quite right. A lady such as yourself can’t be expected to keep down two cans of cider and a jelly shot. I’m surprised you’re still standing.”

“I’m sitting.”

“Semantics.”

You giggled. He looked at you as though he were watching something terrible - an avalanche of powder white snow, a great wall of saltwater coming to flatten everything in its path. Morbid trepidation.

“What?” you asked him.

“Don’t cry, you look so pretty tonight. Please.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away to face the shower, watching the still damp curtain drip run-off down the drain. The words sent fizzing straight through your sternum.

“Has someone said something?”

“Were you expecting them to?”

“No, of course not. Just…” he leaned his weight against the sink basin. “I’m your fake boyfriend but I’m your real friend. I know what it takes for something to upset you.”

“Can people see something I can’t, James?” you asked quietly, pinching the material of your shirt distractedly.

“I’m betting I see a lot more than you do.”

“Is it bad?”

“Are you joking?” He laughed, awkward but earnest.

“No, I’m not joking.” He didn’t know what to say and neither did you. You sniffed very quickly and patted under your eyes carefully. “Doesn’t matter. What did you say about cards?”

James grinned, pulling the offending items from his trouser pocket.

“I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, doll.”

-

“Though I’m suspicious of how you found out where she works, I’m more curious about your plan.”

“My plan?” James asked, a pair of sunglasses on, his own glasses in hand. The label hung off and rested on his sun-warmed cheek.

“How you plan on explaining to Finningley why you, a fan of all sport wizard, are doing in a muggle JD’s.” You paused as he slid a pair of matching sunglasses over your nose.

He grinned brilliantly, the sunglasses doing nothing to dull his exuberant shine.

“Not I, shortcake, we. What are we doing here?”

“That’s more suspicious.”

He led you down an aisle of trainers, boxes piled so high you couldn’t see the tops without craning your neck. “We don’t need to talk to her. Truth be told, I’d rather not. She just needs to see us together.”

“She saw us at Sirius’.”

James poked at a pair of shoes with mild interest.

He looked awful today. Well-dressed, brown skin kissed by the sun over and over. His dark, thick hair was a devilish mess as usual, curls falling this way and that. The sunglasses hid away his melting brown eyes, resting on his handsome hawk-shaped nose. He was clean shaven and smelling of his usual cologne, which in itself was enough to haunt your dreams. Sandalwood unfurling into a deeply woody smell, like a pure, burning flame. You held back the want to press your face into his neckline, to stand in his arms and soak up all his sunshine heat.

Perhaps awful was the wrong word. Either way, it was awful for you.

You turned from him, eyes searching for Finningley.

“In the market for anything?” James asked.

You turned around to find him holding a small football, meant for kids. He sorted through neon coloured footballs and then moved on to expensive branded socks, to rugby jerseys, to windbreakers. The whole shop smelled of sports equipment, slightly plastic. He came across a shockingly ugly pair of football studs, bright orange and fluorescent yellow, raising his eyebrows. “I’d do well in playoffs wearing these. Very distracting.”

“They’d laugh you off the pitch.”

“An unkind sort, quidditch players,” he agreed.

“You’re a quidditch player.”

“And I’m horrid.”

“I concur.”

James grinned something wretched. “You like ‘em mean?”

You were much too fragile to play this game with him. You imagined a version of you that said yes, that goaded him, that kissed him to kiss him and not to convince others you were kissable. That version of you, that brave version, would step on the toes of his shoes and put your hand on his lean chest and say all the right things, set your mouth on his mouth and kiss him like you meant it.

This version of you faltered noticeably.

James frowned and set down the ugly shoes.

He looked like he might say something heartfelt or at least something probing. Conveniently, your reason for being there appeared. You threw open the curtains on your stage play, idling into James’ space like you loved him. You smiled coyly and looked up at him from under your lashes.

“You tell me,” you said, hoping she could hear.

James looked startled. You pressed your hand to his neck. He covered it with his own.

You eased the sunglasses from his face and tucked them into his shirt, leaning up on your tip-toes to speak in his ear. He stilled.

“She’s behind you,” you whispered.

“She’s - oh. Oh.” The undertone of his lovely smile turned from earnest to guarded but he gave it as good as he got it, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he said under his breath.

You braced yourself for his mouth, a polite peck, eyes drifting closed as he came close. Then, a passion — a roughness. James was kissing you hard enough to feel your lips press against your teeth. You froze. He pulled back, nipped your lip, said, “Play along.”

You were trying, only it was difficult to suddenly be kissed so deeply by someone. It was a wish fulfilment at best and a ruination at worst. James Potter was really, truly snogging you, and you wanted it bad. He tasted of spearmint.

He pulled away. You couldn’t help it, you chased him. He appeased you with a last peck and a laugh you’d never heard before and said, “Don’t overdo it, shortcake. We’re still classy.”

You nodded, taking your tingling bottom lip between your teeth. The cheesy novels always got that part right: fireworks. He readjusted your sunglasses back over your eyes and put his own back on and you both refused to turn your head’s in Georgia’s direction. When you looked out of the corner of your eye she was looking at you both with a broom loosely on her hand. When it hit the ground James laughed and covered his mouth. You both stood there desperately constraining contagious giggling.

-

Your final appearance as a couple began on the morning of Alice soon-to-be Longbottom’s wedding. The dress code was simple — as decadent as you please but don’t get cheesy with it. The bridesmaids wore gorgeous bronze silk slip dresses with bouquets of red roses, the groomsmen each with a rose tucked into their pockets.

You’d thought that a black dress might steer people’s attention from you completely and had bought the first one you found that flattered, ending mid-thigh. The fabric at your breasts was stiff, almost an invisible corset, and the straps were settled over each armpit.

The wedding was held on the Longbottom’s four acre property, green green grass topped by long, hand-carved wooden benches set on either side of a white silk aisle adorned by red petals. You and James stood at the top of it and set about making your judgements.

“It’s lovely,” you said.

He looked dreadfully handsome, the dark tendrils of his curls immaculate above his sharp eyes. He dipped down his head to you and you thought maybe he might kiss you. “It’s very dramatic,” he said.

How ironic, you thought. You look like a perfume model and you think everyone else has gone overboard.

“What’s that look?” he asked.

“What look?”

“I know you better than you think,” he said instead, staring at you. You marvelled at his ability to melt you, propping yourself up with a hand on one of the benches. Sirius was causing a palava at the registration table, the sound of Remus’ tired frustration reaching your ears. You hoped their hubbub might distract James long enough to save you, but no such luck. He waited patiently for your answer.

“I — you look very handsome today,” you admitted, feeling hot all over.

Perhaps he didn’t know you so well, as his spine straightened and his hand came up to tug against the collar of his shirt before he tucked it into his pocket with bravado. “Of course I do. I’m a handsome guy.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, embarrassingly earnest, “you are.”

He cleared his throat. The usher was trying madly to get people into their seats, begging ‘Bride or Groom?” to anyone who would listen. This was a difficult question, as most attendees where here for both. You eventually settled on the groom’s side with James, bare thigh pressed into his muscled one.

You could see the shape of his legs through his trousers and then looked away, blushing as you realised your own ogling. He didn’t notice. Well, fair do’s, you thought to yourself, he’s gotten an eyeful of my legs already.

You shivered. A small draft moved through the grounds and wafted the smell of rose water into every crevice. The cardigan you’d worn was similarly black, stopping just below your ribs and tied by two small, soft pieces of fabric at the front. You liked it because it didn’t fully cover the dress, though you were regretting it now.

A general hush had fallen over the crowd in anticipation. James pressed his knee to your knee and leaned over to talk to you without looking at you. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

He brought both your legs into his and covered the outermost with a big hand, roving stripes over your naked flesh. “Bit frigid for an outdoor wedding,” he said, grinning, his pearly teeth peeking out through his parted lips.

You agreed weakly. You could hardly think. Your skin buzzed under his touch.

The music began. Bridesmaids and groomsmen drifted down the aisle looking bright and excessively happy. Lily, in her lovely brown slip, floated down the white silk in her strappy sandals looking like an angel, hair curled and glossy behind her. You knew you shouldn’t, knew it was ridiculous, but you looked to your left. James looked completely normal, no lovesickness, no outward yearning. His hand didn’t pause on your leg for a moment.

“Warmer?” he murmured.

You were burning.

Alice finally came down the aisle in her knee-length gown, all shiny fresh with love and elation on her face. You’d never seen such a ridiculously happy pair of lovers, laughing all through their vows and kissing passionately enough that the pews began laughing too. James’ hand tightened over your leg when the crowd cheered. He and Sirius began whooping loudly as to break your eardrums and, you figured, the sound barrier. Frank bowed to them both with a movement like a rolling bow.

People began rising from their seats to the reception tent.

“What did you think?” James asked as you stood. He remained seated. It was strange to be taller.

“About what?” you asked.

He held his hands out. You accepted hesitantly, felt the broom-wrought callouses on his otherwise soft hands slide against your palms as he spread his fingers over your pulse point, securing them around your wrists. You did the same. You didn’t look unlike  Alice and Frank had, index fingers sliding under his forearms.

He gently pulled you forward to be standing between his open legs. “About the ceremony?”

You relaxed. “I liked it.“ You hesitated to say more.

“What?” he asked conspiringly, seemingly excited by your opinion.

“I can’t say it, it’s mean.”

“Please say it,” he begged. He moved one hand so his fingers were wrapped around the fleshy hill of your thumb. “Please, shortcake, I love to gossip.”

“It’s not gossip!” you said, looking down at where his fingers held your thumb. He pulled you closer still, so close your knees touched the bench.

“It’s the flowers, right? It’s suffocating,” he murmured. You blew a relieved breath out the side of your mouth.

“A bit,” you agreed, giggling, hands tensing around his.

“Like a first year’s hair-softener.”

You laughed more and then looked over your shoulder in paranoia.

“James, shush.”

“What? It’s hardly hearsay!”

“It’s not nice. They’ve had such a perfect day so far and we’re taking the piss.” Even as you said it, you didn’t feel guilty. Your pulse was pressed to his palms, his hands drifting over your skin as you talked and laughed. Half the attendees had moved to the gazebo and yet neither of you noticed.

He’d said something terrible that had you cringing down, stomach aching. When you looked up he was giving you his beatific smile, the sun shining down on you both just right and you felt pinned by it.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said, smiling distractedly, looking down at his wrist. You curled your fingers inward and scratched the underside of his arm gently, feeling a little put out. After today, this would be over. You’d miss the stolen moments in bathrooms and hallways, would miss being allowed in his space like this — unapologetic, unflinching. James moved one hand up your arm, over your cardigan sleeve, to squeeze the crease of your arm.

“You…” he started shaking his head. “You make me so mad sometimes.”

“Mad?” you asked, worried.

“Furious.”

You didn’t know what to say. You tried to pull your arms away and he held on tight.

“You get this look on your face,” he said. He was smiling as he spoke, the strained kind, like he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to. “Like you realise you’re enjoying yourself and have to stop. Like you’re not allowed.”

You looked down at his sleeves, his cufflinks.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked you, suddenly, his voice loud in your ears.

“Yes,” you said timidly.

He let go of one arm to grip your shoulder, a comforting squeezing motion that made you sway. “Yeah?”

“I always have a good time with you, Jamie.”

He gave you a very long look. At first you didn’t recognise it on his face, it was so unlike him. No walls, no guarded secrets, a boy stripping back his bravado.

James let go of your elbow to wrap his arm around your shoulder blade, guiding you down to sit on his leg. You stopped breathing, pulse roaring in your ears whilst you tried to settle over his thigh without squirming. The hand wrapped around your wrist loosed go of your hands. They fell into your lap. His knuckles brushed against the tops of your covered thigh.

You had to wrap your arm around his neck to stop from falling backwards, chest against his chest, soft dark curls crushed under your hold. He smelled as intoxicating as always, sandalwood and something like smoke.

Live music had begun playing in the tent. Guests were clapping and cheering, laughter floating on the rose water breeze. The sun had begun to descend in the sky.

He let his hand rest on your hip, the other on your bare knee. All you could think of was his hands.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said, words like spun silver from his lips, “how beautiful you look today. Forgive me.”

Your heart rocketed. You took as subtle a steadying breath as you could manage, using the very tip of your index finger to push a misbehaved wave from his face. He waited patiently, his eyes drifting shut at your touch.

You dropped your hand. “So tell me,” you said, as bravely as you could.

His hand inched up your knee, spread wide over your thigh. “You’re beautiful.” He faced you head on.

This part was all on you, you realised. You had to be the brave one — he’d made it so it was your decision, had let you be the taller one. You had to be the one to lean down. You had to be the one to mean it.

You inched closer to him, little bit little. You’d never been brave all at once like him. Best he knew it from the start.

“James,” you said, words soft. His smile was gentle. You mirrored his expression unthinkingly. “James.”

You had no grand confession for him. You wouldn’t tell him you loved him, but the idea that you could know him, that he could know you, and that the both of you could make something pretty of it. Well, you’d be brave for it.

You moved down another inch.

“Ask me,” he murmured, your lips so close and not close enough, noses a whisper apart. “I’ll say yes.” What he’d said when you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend. Your heart would burst through your chest any second now.

“I know,” you said, repeating your own words, a world apart. “I think that’s why I’m afraid to ask.” He exhaled through his nose in a laugh.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked. His exhale graced your lips. Nothing, you wanted to say. Everything. “I already told you, I don’t do anything by halves.”

You shivered, shifted on his leg to be taller still. “Why’s it up to me?”

His eyes darted down to your lips. He bit his own, inhaled so sharply you felt his chest move under your hand. The sun set, poured light all over him like a blessed being dripping nectar. His hand came up to touch your face and was soaked in colour. The music lulled, the laughing grew louder.

He ran the back of his hand down your cheek. “Kiss me?” he asked you.

You set your palm over his cheek and closed your eyes. You leaned in. This time, when you kissed him, nobody was watching.

-

omg first james fic kinda nervous

my masterlist

tag club :3

marauders tag list @marimorena06 @glimmering-darling-dolly @siriuslystfu @thatblackravenclaw @thatonecomfyjumper @lupinlust @touchdeprivedwh0re @vi0letblu3s @mooncalvin @gaysnowrose @thatonecomfyjumper @set-myself-on-fire @decafcoffew

Sorry for the angst but just read a post that said "ex friends are like. last time I remembered you I got so angry I almost crashed my car" and now I feel like I need to rip my heart and my teeth out so yeah

AYO this had me blushing smiling kicking my feet rolling around my bed giggling-- I'm so happy. This is soso good

this idea just came to me rn: reader and tom have been writing secret notes to each other and leaving them around the castle for the other to find and reader finally gets the courage to confess/flirt in a message but for some reason the note never gets to him :( and its kinda angsty bc reader takes his lack of response as a rejection but ends with him finally finding it

A/N: I went feral when I read this so obviously I had to write it ASAP. I changed the premise only slightly, I hope you enjoy!!! And thanks for the super cute idea, I'm really feeling the soft fluff tonight 🥺💖

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Ink From The Well

Summary: “We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there with a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together. “Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles. [GN reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house ★ fluff ★ mutual pining]  Wordcount: 3.1k Warnings: none

ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

𝔸 - 𝕄 @abhorredlara @anevrismes @arana-alpha @books-butterbeer @catastrophicalllyy @cranberrypills @dear-fifi @dropssofjupitter @dravenwitchmusings @empath-bunny @evertiel @expectoscamander @fish-eg @grimdevil @herfantasyworldd @hueanhdang @itsjustfics @just-wordsandthoughts @lemirabitur @lovelyysiriuss @lucys-brain @mentally-in-northern-italy @mikariell95 @moatsnow ℕ - ℤ @niallwrld​ @nothinghcppens @obliviouspotterhead @oui-magnifique @pearlstiare @pink-kixxes @raven-riddle @rededfoxy @saintsha @seriouslyginnychase @silverdelirium @sokkasdimples @suicide-sweetheart636 @sunles @tallyovie @tm-mrvl-rddl @toasterking @valentinecarnage @vallastempermental @voidmalfoy @weirdowithnobeardo @whentheskyispinkandabitblue @whoevenfrickenknows @whoreforgeorgeandfred @wizardcherryblossom​

The Potions dungeon is always cold, always a little damp, and only ever lit by sickly yellow lights hanging in grim iron cages from the hewn stone ceiling, but it has an ethereal, sinister sort of beauty to it. The Charms classroom is nearly the reverse, bright and wooden and polished, smelling faintly like fresh popcorn and lined with teetering stacks of bound parchment. The Greenhouses are beautiful too, burnt orange bricks lined with vibrant green weeds, gnarled tables bowing under the weight of strange, colourful plants, and vein-like vines spreading up across the grubby glass ceiling panes in a way that always casts the sunlight into dappled streams. There’s something to love about every classroom the castle, but there’s one that you love most of all.

Transfiguration isn’t necessarily your best class, and Dumbledore isn’t necessarily your favourite teacher, and yet walking into his classroom fourth period on Tuesdays and first period on Fridays never fails to make you smile like nothing else can. It’s not so much the classroom itself that you love, but rather where in the classroom your desk sits. It’s in the back row, first on the left from the door.

Because that just so happens that, in second period on Wednesdays and fifth period on Mondays, Tom Riddle sits down at the very same desk.

Professor Dumbledore likes to ask questions with two correct answers so that even when you answer correctly, he can still be a little bit more correct than you, you’d written absently one day on a scrap of parchment. You’d rolled the scrap between your fingers until it was a twig-thin scroll and discarded it into the inkwell of your desk when the bell rang, forgotting about it completely until the following Tuesday. Perhaps you would have missed it if you hadn’t remembered the note, leaning forward to check if it was still there. You’d not been expecting much but your brows had raised in surprise when you’d caught sight of a little square of very yellowed parchment sitting in the bottom of the well, nondescript and folded along perfectly aligned edges.

You’d pulled it out quickly, replacing it with your ink pottle and sitting back without anyone noticing – though you hadn’t had a chance to open the note until Dumbledore turned his back to write up a very long explanation of the dormant life potential of live creatures transformed into inanimate objects.

You’d pulled the square note from under your textbook and unfolded each razor-sharp margin to reveal a single sentence written in an alluring slanted script.

And in this practice, is it Dumbledore’s intention to challenge his students or to insist on retaining the intellectual high ground?

There had been a strange exhilaration to it. Someone had actually found your absent thought, someone had taken the time to indulge in writing out a reply. Your response, which you’d left folded up, flat, and covert in the bottom of the inkwell just like the stranger, had read;

Conscious or subconscious?

It had been at the forefront of your thoughts walking to class that Friday, your heart skipping a beat when you’d peeked into the ink well as you’d sat down and found another yellowy square of parchment.

Your implication is not lost on me.

Your excitement had dwindled, your smile slowly fading. It wasn’t much to reply to. Fearing that the close-ended comment had been a subtle request to end the strange exchange, you’d left the inkwell empty when the bell had rung, and an entire month had passed before you’d scribbled out another note to the stranger in a fit of boredom.

This class is 30% people trying to impress Dumbledore, 5% Dumbledore actually being impressed, 15% him saying the phrase “now I’m sure the problem here immediately presents itself,” 20% an unhinged monologue, and 30% watching the guy next to me create monstrosities that defy imagination out of common household items

And there it was. A reply waiting for you three days later as if the month-long silence had never occurred.

You’ve left very little allowance for actually practicing Transfiguration in those calculations. Perhaps Dumbledore would be more impressed if his students spent less class time writing to strangers and more time paying attention to his unhinged monologues.

Which had made you retort with a sarcastic accusation that they, too, were spending class time writing to strangers, and then they’d replied with an equally sarcastic invitation to compare grades, and that had been that. A reply waiting for you in every single Transfiguration class, not a single one missed, each note growing a little longer until you started to wonder what would happen if one of the other students who sat at that desk took a peek into the inkwell by chance between your conversations.

You hadn’t had any idea exactly who you’d been writing to until one fateful Wednesday when, after realising a little too late that you’d left your textbook sitting beneath your desk the previous day, you dashed back to the Transfiguration classroom during break to retrieve it. The double doors were open, the previous class was still filing out, Dumbledore calling after them about the upcoming due date for the very same essay he’d assigned you yesterday.

You wait for the crowd to clear a little, craning your head around the door to see if you can pre-emptively spot your book on the ground under your desk when you catch sight of the person still sitting there. At that moment he’s placing a tidy stack of notes into a simple black folder and sliding it into his bag, head bowed to his task and leaving you to stare quite freely at his very striking profile. You watch frozen as Tom Riddle stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, leans forward, and in a fluid series of very nonchalant motions, picks up a capped pottle of ink and drops a small cleanly folded square of parchment into the empty inkwell in its stead. He turns and steps through the door into the corridor as he stows his ink in his bag, looking up curiously when he notices you standing there motionless.

You stare at him, coming to terms with the impossible realisation that apparently, you’re very good friends with Riddle, the jewel in Slughorn’s crown, most likely to be Minister for Magic before 40, and current record holder for number of Outstanding O.W.L.s in Hogwarts history. Plus there’s the whole thing about him being catastrophically gorgeous.

Tom has paused in front of you, expression polite but with a definite hint of amusement as he clicks his bag shut. “Are you quite alright?” he asks, lips just barely quirking.

“Yes,” you say hastily, turning for the door and leaning down to seize your book off the ground where you’d left it. “I forgot my book,” you mutter as you pass him with averted eyes, hoping it’s enough of an explanation to write off your slightly erratic behaviour as you try to flee the scene.

“We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you.

It’s your turn to hesitate. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there, lips still quirked, a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together.  

“Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles.

“I just found out,” you say, waving a little sheepishly at the door.

He turns to you, striding closer with intimidating ease and his smile visibly growing as he watches your eyes widen – but he moves straight past you with nothing more than a single quiet comment in your ear, lilted with humour. “I await your reply.”

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your friends. Everyone is in love with Tom and you can’t help but suspect that things would quickly get out of hand if anyone found out that you’ve been in close correspondence with him for the past four months, even if you hadn’t technically known it yourself. And things had already become hard enough now that you knew who was reading the notes you left, and whose hand was penning his replies.

You try very hard not to think about it too much, you try not to wonder if he smiles when you write something funny, if he looks forward to your answers to his questions, if he thinks about the notes outside of class like you do. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s just messing with you. Maybe it had been the anonymity he’d liked about the interactions, and now he’s just humouring you.

It’s useless. You’ve been wondering who was on the other end of the notes since the beginning, wondering exactly which of your peers is made up of this striking mix of shrewd humour, clear intelligence, and measured charisma, and it’s very, very hard to continue as if things are normal once you know that it’s him.

It’s not really that surprising that he evidently noticed your replies shortening, becoming steadily more stilted and less familiar as your nerves get the better of you – though you’d hardly expected him to be so blunt in pointing it out, and you definitely hadn’t anticipated how he’d apparently been interpreting your distance.

Were you disappointed that it was me?

You reread Tom’s note countless times. It lies open and looming at the head of your desk for half the lesson as you try very hard to focus on the class to no avail.

Is this seriously what he’s been thinking? Is it a joke? Is it supposed to be so clearly ridiculous that you’re supposed to understand it as just his way of coaxing the real answer out of you?

You write out your reply, knowing it’s the overly cautious way forward but unable to bear the thought of misinterpreting him.

What do you mean?

In the three days before you get his answer, you find yourself actively avoiding any situation in which you might see him – you attend meals at peak hours to get lost in the crowd, you avoid the library like you’ll disintegrate if you set a foot inside, and you don’t dare stray near the 6th floor on Saturday when you know for a fact that Slughorn is hosting some poncy get-together in his office.

When you finally sit down on Tuesday at your desk, you don’t even pretend to pay attention to Dumbledore starting the class at the front of the room. You seize the yellow parchment square from the inkwell and hastily flatten it on your desk.

I’ve noticed that you’ve been somewhat different since we met. I’m sorry if you were disappointed to learn of my identity, if you’d like to retire our correspondence I promise to let it go gracefully.

Your eyes widen. You pick up the tidy little square and hold it a little closer, barely believing what you’re seeing.

The parchment bears tiny little ink marks, the faded ghosts of letters adjacent to the pitch black carefully constructed script of his insane note. You could just barely make out some of the words – reserved, one of them seems to say, apologies, says another, a couple more faint letters here and there but nothing else you can properly decipher.

It’s heart-wrenchingly obvious what the marks are.

Tom must have drafted the note at least once before leaving this final version for you, his ink bleeding through onto the parchment below.

Dumbledore’s open hand suddenly appeared in front of you and you jump out of your skin, looking up with burning cheeks and a thundering heart. “Note-passing is not tolerated in my classroom I’m afraid,” Dumbledore says kindly, “now please hand it over, and content yourself with note-taking for the remainder of our lesson.”

You crumple up Tom’s note into a ball over the snickers of the rest of the class, placing it in Dumbledore’s hand and ducking your head in embarrassment as people cast looks your way from all over the room. Dumbledore nodded and made his way back to the front of the classroom, and you try to ignore the way people were still giggling at you.

Tom had drafted the note. He’d drafted it.

It’s this more than anything he’d actually written that makes you consider actually answering him honestly.

When everyone’s attention finally slides away from you and Dumbledore is helping a trio of boys at the front of the class with their Augor charms, you surreptitiously tear off a scrap of parchment. You carefully write out your reply, hoping that Tom doesn’t pay half as much attention to your handwriting as you do his. If he did, he might notice that your lettering is a little more shaky than usual.

I wasn’t disappointed at all, Tom, kind of the opposite. You just make me nervous.

You fold it very hastily just to get your own nearly-confession out of your sight before you second-guess yourself, slipping it underneath your ink pottle. Your heart’s beating too fast considering nothing’s actually happened yet.

It takes all of twenty minutes after class ends for you to regret being so honest. You have to force yourself not to go back and retrieve your note before Tom’s lesson the following day, dreading someone seeing you and demanding an explanation. Instead, you throw yourself into a series of distractions that are almost successful in keeping your mind off your square of parchment sitting in that little wooden nook waiting for Tom’s elegant fingers to lift it from its hiding place.

You don’t know what the hell to expect when you sit down on Friday, but nothing could have prepared you for what you found in your inkwell when you leaned forward.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You sit back, stomach sinking so hard your throat closes up like you’re about to be sick. It’s the first time in half a year he’s not left you a reply.

It had been really stupid to read into those marks, he’d probably just been writing notes for class overtop of the note. It had been really stupid to read into any of this, now that you think about it. You drop your ink pottle into the well, jaw tight, wishing you weren’t this disappointed.

There’s nothing there the following Tuesday either, the nook sits empty and dusty and silent. When Friday comes and there’s still no note you start to accept with grim, hard-to-swallow shame that your confession hasn’t gone unanswered at all. The silence is his answer.

Maybe it had been a ruse after all. Maybe he’d lost all interest in the game when he’d found out you’re just like everyone else in the school, harbouring feelings for him. You have no trouble coming up with increasingly mortifying reasons for his silence over the week that follows, and  you very quickly come to the resolute decision that you need to put the entire ordeal out of your head – clearly Tom already had.

You’re winding your way back to your common room after a late night finishing Slughorn’s assignment on the ethics of using fairy blood when you hear the footsteps.

Someone was running somewhere nearby, echoing through the vaulted stone ceilings and airy corridors, and you pause at the corner looking around curiously as the footsteps seem to be getting much, much louder. You jump back a bit as Tom suddenly skids to a stop in front of you.

You blink at him, stunned. His normally pale face is flushed, the black waves of his hair slightly stuck to his forehead, his lips parted and he’s breathing hard, his tie askew and his usually perfect robes hanging slightly off one shoulder. He’s leaning forward a little, squinting at you as he tries to catch his breath.

“Tom,” you say in utter astonishment.

“He just gave it to me,” Tom says through hard breaths, lifting a small scrap of paper in his hand that, with a feeling much like being impaled through the stomach with a large icicle, you instantly recognise as your note. “Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore just gave you my note?” you ask dumbly, still very bewildered by his appearance.

Tom nods. “I went to ask him some questions, about some of the comments he left on my essay,” he manages to say, his dark brows pulling together and his chest still rising and falling a little more than usual. “And afterwards, he asked if I recognised this.”

You find yourself wishing violently Dumbledore had thrown the thing out. “He caught me reading yours the other day,” you mutter, holding your books a little tighter to your chest and looking away. “He must have seen me hide it.”

“He just gave it to me,” Tom repeats, holding it out a bit more.

“Well he may be a little unhinged but he’s still pretty sharp,” you quip, turning your shoulders away and hoping he takes the hint and lets you leave. “I’m not surprised he knew it was for you, I suppose he recognised your handwriting in the first one –”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Tom interrupts loudly.

You go very still, staring at him again. Tom’s lips press together, and he finally lowers the note.

“I just wanted to tell you,” he adds with a slight frown, and if this wasn’t Tom Riddle you would have sworn that there was something almost awkward in the way he averts his gaze from yours.

“Did you run here?” you ask suddenly, even though the answer is very obviously yes.

Tom’s uncomfortable look intensifies, and you watch him shift slightly on his feet with a mixture of deep gratification and a sudden bursting fondness so intense you feel a smile appear on your lips.

“How did you know I was here?” you add curiously, turning back to him.

“I saw you when I was in the library earlier,” Tom says quickly, sliding the note into the pocket of his trousers like he’s hoping you somehow won’t notice. “I thought I might still catch you.”

You nod slowly. Tom’s eyes are now flicking between yours and the smile on your lips like he’s trying to figure out exactly what this combination of emotions means and someone’s timing him to do so.

“Well,” you say after a long second, taking a step back down the corridor and savouring the sight of him standing there with his ruined hair and dishevelled uniform before you have to turn away. “I await your reply.”

He nods wordlessly, watching you retreat, and you bite back your smile as you force your eyes off him and hurry away.

Maybe you’d been a little too harsh on Dumbledore after all.

angelic state of mind

These are just so good, y'all

photography by Nicolas Lenatti

I need all of these for different parts of my room. Now.

flower lamps !!! 💓